


A King's Hands

by Lise



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Celegorm is a big puppy but like a big Mastiff puppy that might bite your head off, Finrod loves his cousins really, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, been a while since silmarillion fic, the healing hands of house arafinwe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2018-02-16 03:49:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2254785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lise/pseuds/Lise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where Celegorm goes, trouble follows. Which is one reason why Finrod isn't terribly pleased that he's coming on this hunting trip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A King's Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Wow it's been a while since I wrote anything for the Silmarillion. But I was watching The Hobbit recently and thinking about Kili and Kiligorm and realized that _wow_ I've never beaten up Celegorm in fic before! Clearly it was time I did that. With bonus cousin-bonding because Finrod and Celegorm's weird relationship is important to me. (Also, play spot the foreshadowing in this fic. It's a fun game.) 
> 
> Note on my use of athelas here: I am aware that in _The Lord of the Rings_ it's stated that it was brought to Arda by the Numenoreans. However, it does appear in an early version of the Lay of Leithian (used to heal Beren) and thus it is possible that athelas grew in Beleriand and was brought _back_ to Middle-Earth by Numenoreans after Beleriand (and its store of athelas) was destroyed in the War of Wrath. So that is my long winded justification for its use here.
> 
> With thanks to my lovely beta, [ameliarating](http://ameliarating.tumblr.com), who is the actual best.

Word had come from the scouts that a pack of orcs had been spotted to the south of Nargothrond. Finrod might have left the duty of clearing them out to others, but he had been restless of late, and the opportunity to get out of the city had its appeal. He sometimes missed the days when he had been able to explore freely. He missed even more having Turgon at his side.

He was somewhat less fond of his current familial company.

Celegorm came bounding up to him just as Finrod was preparing to mount his mare, grinning widely with Huan following somewhat more sedately at his heels. “Cousin! You are coming hunting with us?”

Finrod let out a breath through his nose and half turned, automatically looking for Curufin behind his brother’s shoulder and surprised not to find him there. Celegorm wore a blade on both hips, only lightly armored and without a helm in sight. His sleek hair was done in its usual elaborate style, threaded through with silver and studded with gems in an ostentatious display that made Finrod want to wince thinking of how many of those gems would undoubtedly be lost during the hunt.

“I was not aware that _you_ were to be joining _me,_ ” he said, a little ruefully. It seemed lately that everywhere he went there was a Fëanorian nearby. He’d rather hoped to have a little time away from the both of them, even if it was short and not for a joyous occasion. Celegorm’s grin was infectious as ever, though, and he caught himself starting to smile a little. “You make it sound like a recreational outing.”

Celegorm’s eyes gleamed, grin turning feral. “Isn’t it? The chance to spill some orc blood is near enough to a pleasure for me.”

Finrod fought the urge to grimace at him, instead turning away and vaulting onto his mare. “Perhaps I would find it more so if there were not so much danger in it,” he said blandly. Celegorm laughed, the wildness leaving his expression, and whistled. His own horse, a grey stallion, came trotting over, whickering at Finrod’s mount. She sidled a little away, and Finrod laid the palm of his hand on her neck, soothingly.

“Nothing is much fun without some danger, Findaráto,” Celegorm said, swinging himself up with practiced ease and leaning down to murmur something that made his stallion prick his ears. “Risk is the spice of life.”

 _You would think so, not having lost anything much,_ Finrod thought, but he knew it was spiteful, and kept it to himself. He did not want to trade this easy insouciance for Celegorm’s legendary temper. “We shall see,” he said neutrally instead. “What matters to me is that we rid our lands of this filth, and ensure that Nargothrond remains hidden.” He paused, and then added, “I am surprised not to see your brother.”

Celegorm’s lips curved in a smile. “Curvo? Ah, he seems to think there are more important things that require his attention.”

Finrod narrowed his eyes. “Such as?”

“Why should I know?” Celegorm said, and with a slight nudge of his legs turned his stallion. “Come, cousin! If you continue delaying the orcs will all run off, and we will be bereft of sport. Let us ride.”

* * *

Whatever else could be said of Celegorm – that he was an incorrigible flirt, flighty, thoughtless – he was a brilliant hunter. He laughed and jested in Finrod’s general direction until they were out in the wilds, and then his demeanor abruptly shifted, sobering and sharpening. He straightened in his saddle and Finrod remembered how much taller Celegorm was than his younger brother in a way it was difficult to see when the two of them were together. He looked more confident, less like the buffoon he often acted. A little intrigued, Finrod let him take the lead without objecting, watching him swing down from his stallion to inspect some sign, kneeling in the mud. Huan padded up beside him and Celegorm reached out absently to scratch him behind the ears.

“How many did your scouts say?” Celegorm asked, head turning and the trace of a small frown between his eyebrows.

“Ten, perhaps twelve,” Finrod said, raising his eyebrows. “Why?”

“Hm.” Celegorm half opened his mouth, and then shut it, shaking his head. “I’m not certain yet, but I think there may be twice that number.” He straightened, brushing his hands on his breeches, mouth a thin line. Finrod’s gaze snapped to the patch of brush Celegorm had been examining, but he could see little amiss.

“Why would you say that?”

“The marks here suggest perhaps five,” Celegorm said, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. “And packs that small rarely travel this far south. If there were eight or ten only, they wouldn’t split up. But twenty, branching into smaller groups to scout an area…”

Finrod heard some of those behind him shift uneasily. Celegorm paced back to his stallion and remounted. Turning his head, Finrod eyed the trees. “Perhaps we should return with a larger force, then.” Twelve riders against that number of orcs were odds Finrod was comfortable with, but a larger number than that…and if they were scouting, that suggested a suspicion there was something to find.

Celegorm seemed amused. “For a mere twenty orcs? You have very little faith in the fighting skills of your people.” He turned his head, scanning the group of hunters, and raised his voice. “Or do you feel such a paltry force beyond your skill as well?”

“Tyelko,” Finrod said lowly, feeling himself tense, but there were murmurs of disagreement and protest, and one of the younger warriors raised his voice.

“What are they to an armed elf?” He said. “I daresay we can manage two of the Enemy’s twisted creatures each.”

“You see?” Celegorm turned back to Finrod, smiling, that slightly feral light in it. “I’m not going to back down from this hunt, cousin. Are you?”

Finrod felt himself bristle. He knew that note of challenge in Celegorm’s voice, as good as a dare. Twenty orcs, he considered, and both himself and Celegorm here. He’d seen Celegorm fight before and could not say that he wasn’t capable.

“No,” he said, finally. “We will press on. This plague needs to be cleansed from our lands.”

Celegorm’s feral smile changed to more of a grin. “Good answer,” he said, unmistakably pleased. “Onward it is, then?” And he turned his back and urged his stallion forward. Finrod stared at his back for a moment, and then followed, shaking his head a little. It made something in him uneasy, how easily Celegorm had claimed the lead. He supposed he could contest it, but it seemed better to simply let it go and pretend that it was inconsequential.

They moved in a thin line, following Celegorm’s commands as he periodically dismounted, checking tracks that Finrod could not make out. Huan stayed close to him, circling around, disappearing into the brush at times only to reappear moments later, an enormous grey shadow. Eventually Celegorm stayed on foot altogether, his pace quickening, his “this way” and “to the west”s becoming more tinged with eagerness. Finrod laid his hand on his blade, aware that they must be catching up to their targets, when suddenly Celegorm stopped.

“Hold,” he said, one hand coming up. Finrod drew his horse in and signaled to the others to do the same. Celegorm turned in a slow circle, a crease appearing between his eyebrows.

“What is it?” Finrod asked, leaning forward a little.

“It’s quiet,” Celegorm said. “Can’t you hear it? Not a bird singing.”

Finrod listened, and it was quiet. Celegorm’s horse, unattended, stirred restively, and Finrod’s mare shifted underneath him and whickered. “Weapons at the ready,” he said, lowly, drawing his sword and urging his mare forward to stand beside Celegorm. “Where-”

Finrod caught the twang of a bowstring and turned to see who had loosed, but his vision was blocked by an enormous grey shape leaping in front of him, jaws snapping together. Huan landed, hackles up and snarling, and dropped the thing he had caught – a black arrow with an ugly, barbed head.

“They’re here!” Finrod shouted, and then orcs were boiling out of the trees and rushing them from all around, snarling in their hideous tongue, crude blades bared, and all was the confusion of battle. One of them charged Finrod and he wheeled his mare and swung his sword down, cutting deep into its torso. He yanked the blade free as his mare reared, lashing out at another with her hooves. He could see Celegorm fighting on the ground, his teeth bared and already spattered with black blood but holding his own. Huan was weaving through the legs of the panicked horses, his teeth flashing like his master’s. The others, after their initial surprise, were regrouping quickly, and the fight was turning.

A blade scored a thin line on Finrod’s calf and he lashed out, foot smashing into an orc’s face. It stumbled back and Finrod urged his mare forward so he could put his sword through its chest. As it slipped off his blade, Finrod spun around again and found that most of the rest were already dead or fleeing. His eyes caught on Celegorm.

His hair had come undone from its elaborate style, some of the silver and gems lost, but he did not seem to have noticed. His eyes were blazing with a fey light as he moved, swift and sinuous despite the greatsword he was using. There was blood smeared across his face and on his armor, and as he beheaded an orc that was trying to run Finrod caught a glimpse of wild _glee_ in his expression. It froze him, just for a moment.

That same uneasiness he’d felt when Celegorm had taken the lead returned. His cousin made it easy, sometimes, to forget that he was a killer, a _kinslayer,_ but Finrod looked at him now and wondered if this was how he had looked during the slaughter at Alqualondë.

As if his cousin had heard his thoughts, Celegorm’s head swiveled, and Finrod felt himself tense involuntarily, but the expression cleared, Celegorm’s eyes widening as he stumbled back. It took Finrod a moment to realize that an arrow had sprouted from below his collarbone.

“Archer!” Finrod yelled, but Huan had already let out a terrible baying sound and was bounding across the clearing, ahead of any other warrior. Finrod heard the scream as he leapt down from his horse and hurried over to Celegorm, and a moment later Huan returned, muzzle drenched in blood, and bounded to his master’s side. Celegorm grabbed onto his back, staggering a little.

“Tyelkormo,” Finrod said, surprised at his own worry. “Are you-”

“Fine,” Celegorm said, his voice a little weak, and he swayed slightly. “—fine. Don’t fuss over me. Ah – damned…” He dropped his sword, still in one hand, and reached up for the shaft jutting out. Finrod caught his wrist, eyeing the spreading patch of blood on his front.

“Leave it,” he said, not quite sharply. “Did it go through?” Huan whined, pressed against Celegorm’s legs. Celegorm shook his head.

“No. Unh – are you sure? I’d really like it out.” Celegorm smiled, one of his charming ones, but it looked strained. His face was pale as well, but he seemed to have steadied.

“Leave it,” Finrod repeated, but he released his wrist. “Until we can find you a healer to remove it properly. Can you ride?”

“Yes!” Celegorm sounded affronted. “It’s one arrow, Findaráto, not a lost limb.” He pulled away from Finrod and whistled, and his stallion came trotting over. Celegorm mounted again, but it looked graceless compared to his usual, his left arm seeming slow to respond. Finrod hesitated, frowning.

“Tyelkormo,” he started, but his cousin tossed his head and turned pointedly away from him.

“I told you to stop fussing, Findaráto,” he said, sounding almost amused again. “We’ve won! You could at least seem happy about it.”

Reluctantly, Finrod let it go. Let his cousin be a stubborn fool if he wished it. Far be it from him to hold Celegorm back from his own idiocy.

* * *

Two other hunters had taken shallow wounds, and one of the horses was limping, but there was nothing terribly serious. It seemed Celegorm had taken the worst of it, and after faltering initially he had rebounded admirably, joking and laughing with Finrod’s men on the journey back to Nargothrond. With a sigh, Finrod decided that he was probably fine, and he’d been worrying over nothing. Orcs were known to use poison, but usually it was neither subtle nor slow.

At least until Celegorm started to fall quiet. Finrod glanced over his shoulder at the cessation of conversation and saw that he’d fallen back a little and was sitting a little less straightly, hunched slightly forward. Huan was hanging back with him, head craned back to look up at him on the horse.

“Tyelkormo,” he called back. Celegorm made a noncommittal noise in response, and Finrod frowned. “Is something the matter?”

Some of his other riders turned. The youngest, the one who had spoken in favor of going on earlier, brought his horse round and started back towards where Celegorm was lagging. “My lord?” He said, sounding hesitant.

Huan let out a sharp bark that was all the warning Finrod had before Celegorm slumped fully forward and sideways. Startled by the sudden shift in weight, his horse jumped to the side, and Celegorm dropped to the ground, landing heavily and without catching himself. Finrod heard the arrow snap and his heart jumped into his throat and he was off his mare and kneeling at his cousin’s side before he had thought about it.

“Tyelkormo,” he said, grabbing his shoulder and turning him carefully to his back. “Tyelko, you fool, you might have said-”

He cut off at the cast of Celegorm’s face, alarmingly pale, his skin sheened with sweat. Finrod reached out and almost jerked his hand back from the heat of fever that his cousin radiated. His head lolled limply to the side and though his eyelids fluttered he didn’t seem aware.

Finrod’s eyes went to the now snapped shaft sticking out of Celegorm’s shoulder and his stomach sank.

“What’s wrong with him?” One of his riders asked, hovering pale and nervous. Finrod ignored him, pulling out his belt knife and cutting Celegorm’s fine clothing away to get a look at the wound. It was red and angry looking, and from the arrow itself fine threads of black were spreading, fanning out towards Celegorm’s neck and heart. Finrod sucked breath through his teeth and felt their watchers draw back.

“What is that?” Someone asked, and Finrod shook his head.

“Old magic,” he said. “Black magic.” Celegorm stirred on the ground, but only to moan quietly, and then cry out, pain flashing across his face.

“I can ride for a healer,” one of the younger riders said, looking anxious.

“Do it,” Finrod said, but even as he said it he thought _there’s no time._ The wound was too close to Celegorm’s heart. It would consume him before they could reach a healer, before any work could be done. If Artanis were here-

But she was not.

Finrod heard Huan whine and turned to look at the great hound, his muzzle still bloodstained, dark eyes soulful. The dog padded to his master’s other side and lay down pressed against him, head dropping to lick his cheek. Celegorm shuddered, twitching, and let out a quiet whimper, his chest rising and falling with the harsh sounds of his breathing.

His cousin, Finrod realized with a sudden sinking feeling, could die here. Felled by a single arrow.

 _No,_ he thought, with sudden, savage vehemence that surprised him. _No, he will not._

“Find me athelas and some water,” Finrod said. His voice sounded harsh. “I need to treat this here and now.”

 _Athelas and a king’s hands to neutralize the Enemy’s poison,_ said the lore.

Finrod hoped for Celegorm’s sake that he was king enough.

He ripped more cloth away from the wound on Celegorm’s shoulder, trying to gauge the depth of the arrowhead. Pushing it through might make things worse, and there wasn’t enough of the shaft left sticking out to get the leverage necessary. If it was anything like the arrow Huan had caught, the head was barbed, which made simply pulling it risky as well.

Setting his teeth, Finrod brought his own knife to flesh and cut deep.

Blood welled, bright red, and Celegorm’s whole body arced as he howled, eyes snapping open, flickering back and forth until they found Finrod. His right hand raised, trying to push Finrod away. “Hold him,” Finrod snapped, to no one in particular, and one of the riders leapt to his bidding, pushing Celegorm back down as Finrod dug deeper, searching for the arrowhead.

“D-damn you, damn y-“ Celegorm’s voice cut off in another howl, his legs thrashing, every muscle in his body cording taut. “Findaráto! Stop, please-”

Finrod grit his teeth and turned the blade, trying to be careful but he felt the edge scrape against bone and Celegorm let out an awful, animal noise, his chest heaving like a bellows. He felt something hard, then, not like bone, and shifted the blade carefully. He wrapped his fist around what he could grab of the arrow’s shaft and tugged, carefully.

Celegorm screamed and passed out, bleeding freely now. Finrod cast the arrow aside and pressed his hands against the ugly gash, reaching back into his memory for the healing arts he knew, murmuring words of healing, clotting and cleansing. When he removed his hands, now slick with blood, the wound was still there but the flow of red had slowed. Celegorm was still with a whistle of pain in his breath and his eyes moved rapidly under his lids as though he was in the throes of a nightmare.

“Cousin,” Finrod said, harshly, and amended, “Tyelkormo. You are stronger than this. I know it.”

He heard running steps and turned, tensing, but it was just one of his men, holding a handful of athelas and holding it out. “There wasn’t much,” he said, sounding nervous, his eyes on Celegorm fearful. He looked very young, and Finrod wondered if he had ever seen death before other than that of orcs.

“It will have to be enough,” Finrod said, with more certainty than he felt. “Water?” He took the first flask that was given him, and it wasn’t hot or clean but that would have to be enough as well.

He began grinding up the athelas, murmuring what words he remembered that Artanis had taught him, letting his voice build slowly into song. He looked at Celegorm’s face, pale and drawn, and suddenly caught himself hesitating.

He remembered his thought earlier, wondering what this elf had looked like in the midst of the massacre of innocents at Alqualondë; the massacre of Finrod’s kin. He thought of his own dread and foreboding, the certainty he had felt when Celegorm and his brother had appeared at his gates that this was going to end badly, and he wondered…

But he thought, too, of Celegorm’s infectious smile, and his easygoing friendliness, and memories of being tickled and teased and played with and comforted as a child, and Finrod was ashamed.

He did not hesitate further.

The moment the athelas touched his wound, Celegorm came back to life, thrashing and screaming, shameless in his pain. His eyes fluttered between open and closed and Finrod vaguely registered that it took four of his riders to hold him down, focused on his song, on the effort of will to draw the poison out and let this be enough, _let it be enough-_

Celegorm shuddered, at last, and went limp. Finrod took a few gasping breaths, almost not daring to look, but his cousin’s pulse still beat in his neck, and the rhythm of his breathing was steadier. The black taint was not gone, but it had faded, receded, and the pale cast of Celegorm’s features no longer seemed so dire.

Finrod slumped, letting out a loud breath of his own, and reached slowly for the already tattered edges of Celegorm’s clothes to tear more and make a bandage of them.

Celegorm stirred, his eyes opening slowly and just barely. Finrod stayed focused on his task, not turning to look.

“Findaráto?” Celegorm said, his voice blurry and half a question.

“None other,” Finrod said.

“Oh,” Celegorm said, and let out a little sigh. “Good.”

Finrod felt himself smile, just a little. Relieved, he realized. He was relieved.

Whatever else Celegorm was, he was still Finrod’s cousin. Amidst everything else…he couldn’t forget that.

“A king’s hands,” Celegorm murmured, suddenly, and Finrod looked at him, startled. His eyes were closed, but his lips twitched. “That’s what it was, wasn’t it? A king’s hands and athelas. I’m lucky you were here.” He was quiet for a long moment, and Finrod almost thought he’d dropped off, but then one of his eyes opened. “I am thinking we should not mention this to Curvo, what do you say?”

Finrod was torn between laughter and just raising his eyebrows. “I am not certain how well that would work.”

“Might be worth a try,” Celegorm mumbled. His eye closed again, and Finrod hesitated.

“You fought well,” he said, honestly. Celegorm huffed a laugh.

“I got shot,” he said.

“Even so.” Finrod half reached out, and stopped the motion before it completed. “You would be welcome on future hunting parties. Your skill is valuable.” The words sounded awkward, stilted, but Celegorm beamed, something startled and pleased to the expression.

“I’m not going to let you forget you said that,” he said, sounding almost gleeful. Finrod shook his head.

“I am sure you will not,” he said, and if there was fondness in it, that was not such a bad thing, was it?


End file.
